


Comets & Violins

by oceansinmychest



Category: Wentworth (TV)
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, F/F, Hurt/Comfort, brief mention of freakytits if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-23
Updated: 2017-02-23
Packaged: 2018-09-26 09:17:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 734
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9880064
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/oceansinmychest/pseuds/oceansinmychest
Summary: “I'll never leave you," she whispers it like a promise, but she is never one to keep them. Not since Jianna.





	

**Author's Note:**

> I'm straying from my beloved freakytits to try my hand at something new. In season four, the relationship between Kaz and Joan fascinated me (before things fell apart, of course). When we learned of Kaz's childhood, my heart hurt for her. You can sense her grief, her anger, her conflictions regarding her father. She's very much a survivor. Granted, she's done some terrible things, but that's a story for another day. I hope you lot can forgive me for writing this. ;P

> ' _&_ _in the end it will begin with comets & violins crashing over everything_ ' – **Comets & Violins**, kidneythieves

“I'll never leave you.”

She whispers it like a promise, but she is never one to keep them.

Not since Jianna.

In the late hours of the night, a certain quietude befalls Wentworth. All of the other inmates have fallen asleep save for two. Shadows crawl across brick walls that have been entombed in thick coats of paint. The bars upon the windows are a grim reminder that free will is an illusionist's cause.

The infamous Joan Ferguson, a woman of keen intellect and with an armful of crimes ( _accusations_ , her lawyer says) tucked beneath her arm, kneels beside the worn bed. Joan's nails graze her scalp, her fingers running through straw blonde hair. It's meant to be soothing. For a moment, Karen Proctor leans into the touch. Savors it. Relishes it with her lips parted though it feels like shards of glass sink into her watery, blue eyes.

Deep down, Kaz knows she ought not believe it.

This reminds Kaz of her father when she was just a little girl, unaware of the manipulations, but mindful of the hurt.

Her heart seizes and clenches. Her ribs convulse. Her body feels like it's shattering. She lays there on the bed with her hands clasped beneath her soft, tear-stained cheek, praying to nothing. Her eyes are puffy from the relentless tears and the trauma resurfacing from those muddied years.

Kaz reaches for the collar of Joan's teal sweartshirt, fisting the thick cotton material. Joan watches her with dark, glittering eyes. There's a mirth swimming in that obsidian sea. A darkness that matches Kaz's own, but perhaps not. They're too different.

She thinks about kissing Joan for the sake of feeling something other than this gut wrenching pain accompanied by the sharp flare of anger. She thinks about how their lips would feel united as one. She thinks about it.

And she thinks about it until she acts upon it.

Kaz is unlike Vera. Her past has made her stronger, sharper. There is no hesitation. She does not play the game of a school girl's crush. Nor does she rest her head on the butcher's chopping block. She is a lioness, not a lamb devoted to a controlling shepherd.

This kiss is brutally unyielding.

Joan smiles into it, as though there's a secret hanging off the tip of her tongue, but Kaz's mouth devours whatever lie that might be. Somehow, there's a slip of tongue. The sensation of soft lips clashing is enough to distract her from the pain and the casket she imagines to be lowered into it (would she spit on his grave? yes, since she's a living dead woman reborn as a girl, full of bitterness). Kaz's fingers work Joan's shirt like a cat kneading a flayed sofa, the fabric wrinkling.

Had this reciprocation not been essential to winning Karen Proctor's trust, then Joan would have wrinkled her nose at the touch – touch so dismal and foreign a concept. Yet, here she is, bringing her fingertips lightly across Kaz's tear-stained cheek.

Playing Vera had been like playing a violin. She made the sweetest music when Joan offered to be her mentor. A few drinks was enough to beckon the start of her unraveling. Her ocean eyes had been young and hopeful. How eager to please she was in that impressionable time. There partnership – that co-dependent thing that had no name – had also been essential, but yielded a bittersweet symphony.

Playing Kaz is like dragging your hand across an open flame. It's going to burn her if Joan doesn't pragmatically consider the outcome. Thus, she acts in a careful manner. Kaz had been there in one of her... weaker moments (she can hear her father berate her in her head), had witnessed how she dragged herself through the blood and agony.

Karen lets go.

She tastes like iron, tea, and red hot anger. Joan wets her lips, allowing for the blonde to rest her head on her tense shoulder. It's a strange feeling: a peculiar heaviness to it. Ferguson leans her mighty spine against the wall, her head rolling back to catch a glimpse at the small window that offers a vision of the night sky.  
Neither woman is weak, fortified by their own ambitions.

Tired and worn, Kaz closes her eyes.

Joan wills it, because Kaz needs it.

 


End file.
